The Voice of Night Vale
by pagerunner
Summary: Sometimes Carlos wonders what he doesn't know about the man he's fallen in love with - and what exactly has laid claim to them both. Set some little while after "First Date" (and written after episode 28).


Carlos doesn't have Cecil's way with words, but then again, in person, neither does Cecil.

The confident, assured radio voice is in there somewhere, beneath the endearingly shy greeting, but tonight his whole presence feels different. Carlos can hear the nervous cracks and pauses, and a certain excited breathiness. Cecil stammers as he crosses the threshold. He reaches for the right thing to say. Once, in fact, it's a literal grasp into the air, as if he's reaching for his script.

Carlos only smiles, and doesn't say a thing.

They've agreed to meet at Carlos' place, in his small rented rooms above the lab. Naturally, Cecil clashes terribly with the sofa. Carlos suspects Cecil hasn't really gotten out of Night Vale much since his college escapades of legend, and that his idea of fashion was unduly influenced by those strange corners of Europe that no one in - he tries to avoid the term, but it's inevitable - _the real world_ has ever heard of.

Still, one thing Cecil definitely has good taste in is alcohol. Carlos ponders the bottle that Cecil offers. He makes the decision simply to trust in it, and not ask what language the label's in, since he can't make any sense of the lettering.

"Thank you," he says. He gestures for Cecil to make himself comfortable. "I'll get glasses."

"It's a nice place," Cecil says, after some neck-craning, and studying of things, and hesitation over the next words to choose. Carlos stops watching Cecil fidget and shoves things aside in his crowded cabinets instead, fetching two tumblers. "I see you've gotten rid of the stains."

The glasses clink together hard in Carlos' hand. "The… stains?"

"Oh. Didn't I ever tell you about the woman who used to live here?"

Carlos shakes his head, recovering his grip on the glasses just before he drops them. He's worrying about where this is going. At least the narrative helps Cecil pick up a rhythm.

"About ten years ago, there was… an event… that the council classified as a _dimensional incident._ Then they they ordered us all to stop asking about it, or even acknowledging it. After all, the collision was brief. Harmless, mostly." He shrugs. "But when Mrs. Fletcher saw a strange man walking through her apartment, she assumed he was an intruder, and…."

Carlos can't help but anticipate the worst. Beheadings? Someone getting devoured by strange, eldritch beasts? "She attacked him?" he asks warily.

"She was making spaghetti sauce at the time," Cecil answers, his voice pensive. "In a cast-iron pot. And she _was_ the champion softball pitcher of the Night Vale Vampire Bats for three years running. The spatter radius crossed two worlds. I hear it was impressive."

Carlos bursts out with stunned, _why-am-I-even-surprised_ laughter. "Oh. _Well then._"

"You sound relieved."

"The way you started that story, I was expecting viscera."

"Not on a _date_," Cecil says.

Even though that last word wavers, half with tension, half excitement, there's also a curve to his mouth Carlos can almost describe as sly. His stomach does a strange little flip. He tries a smile, too, and pours the drinks.

They both have some idea of what _kind _of date they're hoping this will be, after all.

Of course, there are no guarantees. There are never any guarantees in this town. They've gotten close before, but… _circumstances_… intervened. That tryst near the Night Vale Experimental Greenhouses was interrupted by the plants themselves, who were irritated at the display, and Carlos' sole visit to the radio station didn't last past a brief hand-touch and a rush of entirely inappropriate feelings before rumblings from the Station Management office put a stop to _that. _Carlos is still having dreams about that dire, disapproving, tooth-rattling noise. It's become terribly obvious that they need proper privacy.

Carlos' apartment might be their best shot at it, even if the laboratory's ventilation downstairs is on the fritz again, and the faint odor of that afternoon's experiments continues to linger. Cecil, at least, doesn't seem to care.

By Carlos' second drink, he doesn't either.

He's pleasantly warm, and his heartbeat is running fast, because he's sitting beside Cecil now, close enough to feel it when the other man speaks. Cecil's earlier awkwardness is starting to melt away. His voice is steady again, rich and familiar, and it's _here_, present, practically purring into Carlos' ear. He tilts his head, almost unconsciously. Leans closer. Feels Cecil's breath across his skin.

His own physical response to that is almost unearthly, but he tries to wait it out a little longer. Cecil's on a roll now, and his expression suggests he _knows _Carlos is enjoying it thoroughly. No point in spoiling the game.

"…so that's how we lost Intern Mariposa, although she seems content in her new form. I try to remember that when up against such obstacles. Never underestimate the freedom of accepting what you cannot change."

"Mmh," Carlos says, rather missing the full point of that story. His elbow is propped on the back of the sofa; he's feeling loose-limbed and pleasantly light-headed.

"Mariposa used to be a common name in Night Vale, actually. It only fell out of favor after the great Flame-Winged Butterfly Incident of 2003. But… that's another story." Cecil pauses. After a minute he smiles. "Carlos?"

It takes him a second to reply. The scientist in him wants to _ask _about that story, but as for the rest -

The rest, he has to admit, is quite distracted.

Cecil has just placed one hand upon his, and his thumb has found the sensitive spot on his inner wrist. Everything tingles and aches. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. "Yes, Cecil?"

He sounds amused: "Are you listening to me, Carlos?"

"Of… of course. Of course I am."

"You're _hearing_. Do you understand?"

It's a simple question, but something deep within Carlos tenses. There's an odd resonance to those words- something that feels far older and stranger than the man before him - but he doesn't have time to grasp for that, either, any more than he does the story of the flame-winged butterflies. Instinct warns him that this thing he's sensing would be just as dangerous to catch.

And anyway, Cecil's leaning forward, being the first one to dare this time. Carlos gasps, parting his lips into the kiss.

He gives himself to the want and need without a second thought. He wonders if that counts as an answer.

They nearly don't make it to the bed, as entangled in each other as they become, but at last Carlos makes himself stand and tugs Cecil with him. By the time they've crossed the pitifully small distance of the room, their clothes have all been shed. Carlos is listening to _everything. _Fingers against skin, desperate breaths, the creak of springs as they fall-

Beyond the confines of this space, something else, something powerful, sparks and rumbles. Carlos shakes his head when Cecil's eyes widen. "I'm here, Cecil," he whispers, not quite sure why. "I'm here."

Cecil moans in soft response. For a moment they're still, but then slowly they begin again. And nothing, this time, stops them. It just builds. And builds. Eventually, inevitably, it reaches its peak, and it ends as it began: with voices overwhelmed and breaking, and tension rising until it can't be held and shatters like glass.

Then - as Cecil had once said, putting _such _images into Carlos' head, which are far outdone by what's happening now - there's the silence afterward, the soft, wet silence, of post-coital breath-catching.

The long, slow sound of settling.

Eventually, there's sleep.

...

He wakes once in the too-long night of Night Vale, and goes to open the window.

Carlos still feels light-headed, a little disoriented. The room is hot, and he's hoping the air outside will help. He rubs his forehead with the back of one hand, then awkwardly - he's a little sore and unusually conscious of his body, although not unpleasantly - he wrests the window open.

Outside, the clouds have gathered. There's still an electric tension in the air.

_Lightning, _Carlos thinks, although it hasn't broken yet. He feels as though that's simple bad timing. Poetic symmetry would have demanded it happen earlier, at the exact same moment when-

Well.

Unaccountably, considering he was partially responsible for that… other sort… of detonation, Carlos blushes. He turns to look at Cecil.

His lover (and his whole body jolts to even contemplate the word) is still asleep. He's sprawled loosely on the bed, one hand above his head, eyes flickering in dream. Carlos watches for a while. _Do you understand? _Cecil's voice echoes in his head, and he wonders suddenly if he does. Because Cecil looks so _ordinary. _Lovely, yes, but that's observer's bias. Nothing particularly stands out as unusual, is the real point. Average build and features, nothing that suggests too much of Night Vale's strangeness, and yet….

In this faint light, he wonders.

Cecil still hasn't said much about his past. Anything, really, about who he is, apart from who he is within this town, and everything about it that he feels so compelled to share. Sometimes Carlos wonders guiltily if that's why he's so fascinated with him.

Sometimes he worries about what else he doesn't yet know - or doesn't even know that he doesn't know.

"Cecil?" he says softly, for lack of anything else. The only response is from the sky. It's another low, threatening rumble, sounding like that day he angered Station Management. Carlos' bare skin prickles all over. He puts one nervous hand to his hair - _not quite so perfect now, _he thinks ruefully, since it's mussed from sex and sleep, and there's flyaway strands from all the static. "Cecil, are you-"

There's still no reply, but Cecil turns restlessly, frowning at something. He looks so suddenly troubled. In a moment of protective impulse, Carlos scuffs forward one step, hand outstretched.

When he touches Cecil, there's a spark.

The world around him erupts with thunder. Violet-edged light splits from the sky, and in that instant Carlos can suddenly see _everything - _even things he's sure he was never meant to see. Cecil's eyes flash open like they're lit from within. Across his entire body, twining and moving across his skin in sinuous lines, are strange, indescribable symbols. Carlos staggers, seeing Cecil's body arch from all this energy, and his mouth opens, and in that wild moment Carlos can hear so much - the angels and the hooded figures and _so_ many voices - and sparks flash through the air, like spontaneous fires flaring to life, like those butterflies, or something even more -

And a voice justlike Cecil's, except oh, no, it's nothing alike at _all, _whispers, _He is our voice. He cannot know. _

All at once, the sound and light implode to nothing. Carlos' ears pop and his head rings painfully, and suddenly he finds himself collapsed onto the bed, just barely propped up above Cecil.

For his part, Cecil just blinks at Carlos in innocent, startled confusion, like the lightning had shocked him awake from a disconcerting dream.

"Carlos?" he says. "What is it?"

Carlos pushes himself back to what probably still isn't a safe distance. All he can do is stare. It's painful when he struggles to catch his breath.

_What is it? What __**was**_ _that? _

He isn't sure.

Whatever he just saw, though, the memory's already singed and crumbling, like the lightning somehow struck it, too. There's spots in his vision from all that light, and…

…_that voice, that perfect, terrible voice, containing multitudes, echoing everywhere…._

Oh, God, his head hurts.

Carlos puts a trembling hand to his forehead again. He hears himself speak as if from miles away. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened…."

Cecil pulls his hand back down, clasping it for reassurance. "Headache?" Cecil says, almost timidly.

Carlos looks down at their twined fingers. He's still seeing afterimages of something he can't possibly describe, and that voice from Cecil's lips makes him shiver. He's not sure why. But he nods. "Yes," he replies distantly.

"I'm sorry." After a second Cecil adds, "Must be the change in air pressure."

Carlos turns to consider the open window. _Yes, _he thinks. _I went to open it. _And maybe he's only shivering from the breeze after all, because the stagnant air is suddenly moving, and the skies outside are clear.

"Must be," he echoes.

He gets up, freeing Cecil, who props himself up on both elbows and watches as Carlos goes to the window again. It's quiet outside. He can see the stars, and the distant dance of the lights above the Arby's.

As it happens, he's presenting quite a silhouette to Cecil, but he doesn't realize it until he turns around again and sees Cecil smiling with a certain wistful longing and satisfaction all at once.

"My Carlos," he says - and there's that weird resonance again to the words, like it's more than just Cecil laying claim to him. But the look on Cecil's face is totally guileless. "You truly are perfect."

"Oh, no," he says, laughing uneasily. "I'm not-"

Cecil's voice goes softer. "To me."

Carlos doesn't say anything. Cecil gets up, padding across the room to stand beside him. There's a small, lingering static charge when Cecil's shoulder brushes his; it's enough to make Carlos jump, and Cecil laugh.

Somehow, ironically enough, that's what grounds him.

"Now, I'm not going to hear about all this on the radio tomorrow, am I?" Carlos says, tracing out symbols he doesn't recognize on the windowsill. "Because that might be…."

_Trouble, _that tattered memory responds. _Embarrassing, _the rest of him does.

Cecil only smiles. "Well. I might have to tell my listeners _something _about us. It's big news for a town like ours. And I _do _speak for the benefit of all of Night Vale, after all…."

Carlos' eyes widen. He's just drawn an eye, in fact, and it's hard not to imagine that it's staring straight at him. He goes very, very still.

"But," Cecil says. He takes a long breath, "I promise it won't be everything_. _There _are_ parts of my life that are just for me." His hand finds Carlos' again, drawing it away from his doodling. "And for us."

Carlos relaxes minutely. He imagines the eye blinking shut.

"Good," Carlos whispers, holding on tight. "Good."

And it _is _good: that smile, and this touch, and the closeness between them. Whatever else might be in this impossible town, this much feels true.

So Carlos pushes those half-formed worries aside, and turns from the window. He bends to kiss Cecil's unmarked skin instead. And he closes his eyes against the faintly remembered lights and the far-off blink of the radio tower, to have this quiet moment with the man he loves, and not need any words at all.


End file.
